


For Duty and Love

by vecus_saravan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambitious Jon Snow, Book Jon, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon has a baby with Ygritte, My First Fanfic, Parent Jon Snow, Politically smart Jon( because fuck that D&D shit), Targaryen Babies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23401375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vecus_saravan/pseuds/vecus_saravan
Summary: "what is duty to a woman's love? what is honour to the feel of a newborn in your arms? nothing but winds and words for the gods fashioned us for love."  what if Ygritte was pregnant with Jon's child, how would it affect the story? follows canon, well... mostly.
Relationships: Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Val, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa stark /harry the heir
Comments: 20
Kudos: 42





	For Duty and Love

**Author's Note:**

> my very first GOT fanfic, please be gentle with your comments. oh, and this is largely un'beta'd so...

The wind was blowing wild from east, so strong the heavy cage would rock whenever a gust got it in its teeth. It skirled along the wall, shivering off the ice, making Jon’s cloak flap against the bars. The sky was slate grey, the sun no more than a faint patch of brightness behind the clouds. 

A grim day. Jon Snow wrapped gloved hands around the bars and held tight as the wind hammered at the cage once more. When he looked straight down past his feet, the ground was lost in shadow, as if being lowered in a bottomless pit. 

Well, death is a bottomless pit of sorts, he reflected, and when this day is done, my name will be shadowed forever.

Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their natures was wanton and treacherous. Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true as his trueborn sons and daughters. 

I made a botch of that, Robb had become a hero king,

if Jon would be remembered at all it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker and a murderer. He was atleast glad that lord Stark was not alive to see his shame.

I should have stayed in that cave with Ygritte.  
He thought miserably, thinking of her filled him with shame and regret. Ygritte was unlike anyone he had ever met in his entire life, every other woman he met (except Arya of course) was weak, submissive, compliant and genteel, always hiding behind a wall of curtsies and tears as a shield. But not Ygritte, hells no, she was the exact opposite of all that; wild, fearless, strong, stubborn and free. She did what she wanted, when she wanted and anyone who would try and stop her would get an arrow between their eyes.

Jon smiled sadly thinking of the last time he saw her, the look of heartbreak and pain in her eyes, the slight quiver of her lips as she tried not to cry. It’s been over 7 moons seen he last saw her but he could still remember the expression on her face.

He had expected to see her on the forefront of Mance Raydor’s army as they attacked Castle black but surprisingly he hadn’t spotted her unkempt, wild red hair anywhere. That atleast gave him the hope that she was still alive with Tormund somewhere.

‘Mostly likely waiting to put more arrows in me’ he mused, not like he would ever blame her. To her, he used her, betrayed her and discarded her and she had every reason in the world to want to see him dead.

Jon couldn’t help but groan miserably as another gust of strong wind hammered at the cage once more.

He flexed his sword hand, as Maester Aemon had taught him. The habit had become part of him, and he would need his fingers to be limber to have even half a chance of murdering Mance Rayder. They had pulled him out this morning, after four days in the ice, locked up in a cell five by five by five, too low for him to stand, too tight for him to stretch out on his back. The stewards had long ago discovered that food and meat kept longer in the icy storerooms carved from the base of the Wall… but prisoners did not. 

“You will die in here, Lord Snow,”

Ser Alliser had said just before he closed the heavy wooden door, and Jon had believed it. But this morning they had come and pulled him out again, and marched him cramped and shivering back to the King’s Tower, to stand before jowly Janos Slynt once more. 

“That old maester says I cannot hang you,” Slynt declared. “He has written Cotter Pyke, and even had the bloody gall to show me the letter. He says you are no turncloak.” 

“Aemon’s lived too long, my lord,” Ser Alliser assured him. “His wits have gone dark as his eyes.”

“Aye,” Slynt said. “A blind man with a chain about his neck, who does he think he is?”  
Aemon Targaryen, Jon thought, a king’s son and a king’s brother and a king who might have been. But he said nothing.

“Still,” Slynt said, “I will not have it said that Janos Slynt hanged a man unjustly. I will not. I have decided to give you one last chance to prove you are as loyal as you claim, Lord Snow. One last chance to do your duty, yes!” He stood. 

“Mance Rayder wants to parley with us. He knows he has no chance now that Janos Slynt has come, so he wants to talk, this King-beyond-the-Wall. But the man is craven, and will not come to us. No doubt he knows I’d hang him. Hang him by his feet from the top of the Wall, on a rope two hundred feet long! But he will not come. He asks that we send an envoy to him.”

“We’re sending you, Lord Snow.” Ser Alliser smiled. 

“Me.” Jon’s voice was flat. “Why me?” 

“You rode with these wildlings,” said Thorne. “Mance Rayder knows you. He will be more inclined to trust you.” 

That was so wrong Jon might have laughed. “You’ve got it backward. Mance suspected me from the first. If I show up in his camp wearing a black cloak again and speaking for the Night’s Watch, he’ll know that I betrayed him.”

“He asked for an envoy, we are sending one,” said Slynt. “If you are too craven to face this turncloak king, we can return you to your ice cell. This time without the furs, I think. Yes.” 

“No need for that, my lord,” said Ser Alliser. “Lord Snow will do as we ask. He wants to show us that he is no turncloak. He wants to prove himself a loyal man of the Night’s Watch.”  
Thorne was much the cleverer of the two, Jon realized; this had his stink all over it. He was trapped. 

“I’ll go,” he said in a clipped, curt voice. 

“M’lord,” Janos Slynt reminded him. “You’ll address me—” 

“I’ll go, my lord. But you are making a mistake, my lord. You are sending the wrong man, my lord. Just the sight of me is going to anger Mance. My lord would have a better chance of reaching terms if he sent—” 

“Terms?” Ser Alliser chuckled. 

“Janos Slynt does not make terms with lawless savages, Lord Snow. No, he does not.”  
“We’re not sending you to talk with Mance Rayder,” Ser Alliser said. “We’re sending you to kill him.” 

The wind whistled through the bars, and Jon Snow shivered. His leg was throbbing, and his head. He was not fit to kill a kitten, yet here he was. The trap had teeth. With Maester Aemon insisting on Jon’s innocence, Lord Janos had not dared to leave him in the ice to die. This was better. 

“Our honor means no more than our lives, so long as the realm is safe,” Qhorin Halfhand had said in the Frostfangs. 

He must remember that. Whether he slew Mance or only tried and failed, the free folk would kill him. Even desertion was impossible, if he’d been so inclined; to Mance he was a proven liar and betrayer. When the cage jerked to a halt, Jon swung down onto the ground and rattled Longclaw’s hilt to loosen the bastard blade in its scabbard. The gate was a few yards to his left, still blocked by the splintered ruins of the turtle, the carcass of a mammoth ripening within. There were other corpses too, strewn amidst broken barrels, hardened pitch, and patches of burnt grass, all shadowed by the Wall. Jon had no wish to linger here. He started walking toward the wildling camp, past the body of a dead giant whose head had been crushed by a stone. A raven was pulling out bits of brain from the giant’s shattered skull. It looked up as he walked by.

“Snow,” it screamed at him. “Snow, Snow.” 

Then it opened its wings and flew away. No sooner had he started out than a lone rider emerged from the wildling camp and came toward him. He wondered if Mance was coming out to parley in no-man’s-land. That might make it easier, though nothing will make it easy. But as the distance between them diminished Jon saw that the horseman was short and broad, with gold rings glinting on thick arms and a white beard spreading out across his massive chest. 

“Har!” Tormund boomed when they came together. “Jon Snow the crow. I feared we’d seen the last o’ you.” 

“I never knew you feared anything, Tormund.” That made the wildling grin.

“Well said, lad. I see your cloak is black. Mance won’t like that. If you’ve come to change sides again, best climb back on that Wall o’ yours.” 

“They’ve sent me to treat with the King-beyond-the-Wall.” 

“Treat?” Tormund laughed. “Now there’s a word. Har! Mance wants to talk, that’s true enough. Can’t say he’d want to talk with you, though.” 

“I’m the one they’ve sent.” 

“I see that. Best come along, then. You want to ride?”

“I can walk.” 

“You fought us hard here.” Tormund turned his garron back toward the wildling camp. “You and your brothers. I give you that. Two hundred dead, and a dozen giants. Mag himself went in that gate o’ yours and never did come out.” 

“He died on the sword of a brave man named Donal Noye.” 

“Aye? Some great lord was he, this Donal Noye? One of your shiny knights in their steel smallclothes?” 

“A blacksmith. He only had one arm.” 

“A one-armed smith slew Mag the Mighty? Har! That must o’ been a fight to see. Mance will make a song of it, see if he don’t.” Tormund took a waterskin off his saddle and pulled the cork. 

“This will warm us some. To Donal Noye, and Mag the Mighty.” He took a swig, and handed it down to Jon. 

“To Donal Noye, and Mag the Mighty.” 

The skin was full of mead, but a mead so potent that it made Jon’s eyes water and sent tendrils of fire snaking through his chest. After the ice cell and the cold ride down in the cage, the warmth was welcome. Tormund took the skin back and downed another swig, then wiped his mouth. 

“The Magnar of Thenn swore t’us that he’d have the gate wide open, so all we’d need to do was stroll through singing. He was going to bring the whole Wall down.”

“He brought down part,” Jon said. “On his head.”

“Har!” said Tormund. “Well, I never had much use for Styr. When a man’s got no beard nor hair nor ears, you can’t get a good grip on him when you fight.”

He kept his horse at a slow walk so Jon could limp beside him. 

“What happened to that leg?”

“An arrow. One of Ygritte’s.” 

“That’s a woman for you. One day she’s kissing you, the next she’s filling you with arrows.” 

“Is she… is she with you?” he asked hesitantly

His question was met silence as Tormund regarded him with a look he couldn’t decipher

“What? What is it? Did something happen to her Tormund?” he asked frantically unable to shake the fear and terror that griped him at that moment.

“Calm your horses little crow, nothing bad happened to her”

“Then what it is?” he questioned impatiently

“She never told ya, did she?”

“Tell me what?”

“You’ll see for ya’self, come now, Mance is waiting” 

Tormund’s tone was gruff but gentle  
Soon they were among the tents. It was the usual wildling camp; a sprawling jumble of cookfires and piss pits, children and goats wandering freely, sheep bleating among the trees, horse hides pegged up to dry. There was no plan to it, no order, no defenses. But there were men and women and animals everywhere. Many ignored him, but for everyone who went about his business there were ten who stopped to stare; children squatting by the fires, old women in dog carts, cave dwellers with painted faces, raiders with claws and snakes and severed heads painted on their shields, all turned to have a look. 

Jon saw spearwives too, their long hair streaming in the piney wind that sighed between the trees. There were no true hills here, but Mance Rayder’s white fur tent had been raised on a spot of high stony ground right on the edge of the trees. The King-beyond-the-Wall was waiting outside, his ragged red-and-black cloak blowing in the wind. Harma Dogshead was with him, Jon saw, back from her raids and feints along the Wall, and Varamyr Sixskins as well, attended by his shadow cat and two lean grey wolves. When they saw who the Watch had sent, Harma turned her head and spat, and one of Varamyr’s wolves bared its teeth and growled. 

“You must be very brave or very stupid, Jon Snow,” Mance Rayder said, “to come back to us wearing a black cloak.” 

“What else would a man of the Night’s Watch wear?” 

“Kill him,” urged Harma. “Send his body back up in that cage o’ theirs and tell them to send us someone else. I’ll keep his head for my standard. A turncloak’s worse than a dog.” 

“I warned you he was false.” Varamyr’s tone was mild, but his shadowcat was staring at Jon hungrily through slitted grey eyes.   
“I never did like the smell o’ him.” 

“Pull in your claws, beastling.” Tormund Giantsbane swung down off his horse. “The lad’s here to hear. You lay a paw on him, might be I’ll take me that shadowskin cloak I been wanting.” 

“Tormund Crowlover,” Harma sneered. 

“You are a great sack o’ wind, old man.” The skinchanger was grey-faced, round-shouldered, and bald, a mouse of a man with a wolfling’s eyes. 

“Once a horse is broken to the saddle, any man can mount him,” he said in a soft voice.   
“Once a beast’s been joined to a man, any skinchanger can slip inside and ride him. Orell was withering inside his feathers, so I took the eagle for my own. But the joining works both ways, warg. Orell lives inside me now, whispering how much he hates you. And I can soar above the wall, and see with eagle eyes.” 

“So we know,” said Mance. “We know how few you were, when you stopped the turtle. We know how many came from Eastwatch. We know how your supplies have dwindled. Pitch, oil, arrows, spears. Even your stair is gone, and that cage can only lift so many. We know. And now you know we know.”

”Aye, you have the men, but we have the castle. Even if you did push your entire army to storm the gates, how many of your people would fall before you succeeded?” he asked evenly not giving him a chance to respond before he continued, “I remember you once told me that your people have bled enough and I believe you”

“So tell your black brothers to open the gates Jon Snow and we can avoid this battle altogether”

“I can’t do that” he said with a shake of his head

“And why not”

“Because you can barely control your own people. Aye, they respect your as their king but they have no respect for any laws or have any interest in keeping the king’s peace, more often than not, they act like savages”

Apparently that was the wrong to say as he saw Harma and Varamyr draw their weapons and approach him with a killing intent only stopping by Mance word.

“Let him speak”

“When you sent us climb the wall with Magnar of Thenn, do you know what I saw? Your people attacked innocent villagers, destroyed innocents families and killed innocent people. There’s a young boy who really recently join us when, he has no family or friends left and was forced to join the night’s watch just to survive because of what your people did”

He took a few steps closer to the king-beyond-the wall standing just a few inches away from him, “You look me in the eyes right now and promise me that if we allow you and your people to pass through those gates, your people will not reave, rape and steal from the towns and villages that are south of the wall.”

“And so what if we did” Varamyr challenged him with a sneer, “we’re freefolk, we’ll do whatever we want”

“The night’s watch may not have the men, but the north has; a well-disciplined, well supplied and well trained army. An army that would destroy you the moment you pass through these gates… without the night’s watch’s approval”

Mance regarded him for a moment obviously trying to just how trustworthy he was

“You’re telling me you would open the gates for us Jon Snow?”

“When I joined your war band, my orders were to find out why you were amassing such a large army, why more and more recruits were deserting the night’s watch after going on a ranging beyond the war. The lord commander wanted to find out what was it that you were running from…”

“And? Did you find what you were looking for Jon Snow?” Mance inquired

“Yes, I saw what’s out there, at the fist of the first men and I know that the freefolk are not safe being beyond the wall lest they end up like the white walkers, I can help you”

“How?” Mance asked ignoring the disbelieving snort of Harma 

“Our lord commander is dead, killed by his own men. He made me his steward before he died because he wanted to groom me for command. That and the fact that my brother is the king of the North puts me in a good position to nominate myself as the new lord commander of the night’s watch.” 

‘I’ll have to prove my innocence to those two cunts first’ he thought morosely flexing his sword hand as he continued, “In that position, I could allow you and your people to pass through those gates without a fight, there’s some good lands in the gift where your people can settle”

“Uh huh… and in exchange?”

“I will need hostages, to ensure that your people keep in line and obey the king’s laws, I will need some of your men to man the wall and help defend it when the others and the wights come for us and I will need your people to gather proof of the white walkers to show to my brothers at castle black and my brother at Winterfell, if they are to believe me and anything that I say” he finished explaining

In truth, this was the main reason why he abandoned Ygritte in the first place, he saw the dangerous things that lurked beyond the war and he knew the freefolk were not safe being out there, but he still couldn’t allow them to pass the wall at their own terms. If they did so, what would stop them from attacking Winterfell and killing everyone he loved? What would stop them from pillaging every village they came across and killing every innocent civilian? Mance Raydor could make all the promises and declarations he wanted but even he could not control his own people, the freefolk did they wanted, when they wanted and followed no laws. 

No, he couldn’t allow them to do as they pleased, he would them help pass the wall, but they needed to be kept in check, he only hoped that Mance saw this as well and agreed to it, or atleast considered it.

Jon Snow felt tense as a couple of minutes went by in silence as the king-beyond-the-war considered his words not being helped by Harma and Varamyr at all

“Don’t tell me you’re listening to this lying crow?” Harma said eyeing him with disgust

“He’s a liar, just like the rest o’ em, I say we storm this castle with our full force tonight” Varamyr exclaimed hatefully

“Enough!” Mance told the two, putting his attention back on him, “You mentioned hostages…”

“Aye, I can’t let you through without a guarantee that you won’t betray us and to show my brothers and the lords of the north that you are willing to live in peace with them”

“And if I agree to this, when will you open the gates for us?”

“I ‘ll need you to wait a few days, the night’s watch need to be given a chance to choose a new lord commander and they won’t be able to do that if you’re standing on their door step with an axe in hand.”

Harma responded by spitting at his feet obviously not liking the way this conversation is going,

“Oh yeah, and just why the 7 hells should we trust you crow?” she all but sneered hatefully

“What do you have to lose? A couple of days? If I prove to be a liar then you’ll still storm the gates and kill everyone in your path” Jon replied evenly at her.

‘Though I really hope it doesn’t come to that’ he then turned his attention to Mance, “well?” he asked impatiently, he was really getting desperate to see Ygritte and explain himself.  
After a couple of more minutes of silence, the king-beyond-the-wall finally stretched his hand and offered it to Jon, as soon he grasped the man’s hand, Mance Raydor pulled him close his other hand on Jon’s throat

“If you betray me crow, after I breakthrough castle black, I’ll have my men flay you and use your wolf’s skin to make a new cloak. You understand me boy?” Mance’s tone was as cold and promising as he has never heard before giving him the disturbing images of the man’s threats.

“Seven days, nothing more, you understand” and Jon gave a stiff nod as Mance finally let him go.

‘Good, now that that’s settled’, “where’s Ygritte? I would like to talk to her”

Instead of responding, Mance Raydor laughed at his question that was accompanied by Tormund’s toothy grin,

“You really are an interesting man, bastard of Winterfell” he opened the flap of the tent. 

“Come inside. The rest of you, wait here.” 

“What, even me?” said Tormund. 

“Particularly you Tormund. Always.” 

It was warm within. A small fire burned beneath the smoke holes, and a brazier smoldered near the pile of furs where Dalla lay, pale and sweating with her sister, Val, holding her hand.  
The scene of Mance Raydor’s wife ready to give birth was surprising enough but what really shook Jon to the core was seeing Ygritte laying right next to Dalla looking like she was just as ready to birth as Mance’s wife

“Ygritte?” he whispered feeling himself being rooted to the spot as the redhead turned her blue eyes to him.

“Jon?” he heard her say, “Is it really you? I’m not dreaming?”

“No, its really me,” he affirmed as he finally walked to her grasping her little hand in his. She looked like she would burst at any time.” I… Ygritte, you’re-

“-What are you doing here? You left… you left me” the last part was said in a whisper but Jon still heard it clearly enough for him to flinch with shame.

“I’m so sorry Ygritte, I didn’t mean to leave you I swear. I just… I just wanted to help freefolk without betraying my brothers and… I… Ygritte, you’re with child”

His child. honestly, he didn’t understand why he was as shocked as he was right now, he had laid with her almost every night after their cave. Sometimes they had even done twice or thrice a day. What did he expect would happen?

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

The mare idea of siring any children always gave Jon once unwanted nightmares. The fact that any child he had would carry his bastard name and status never sat well with him, knowing full well just how bastards were treated in this world. Hells, that was one of the main reasons he joined the night’s watch in the first place; to make sure he would never bring any child in this world who would be forced to endure the ridicule and stigmatization of a bastard.

And yet, here he was. Jon would have surely laughed at the irony of the situation if not for the people present and the current predicament he found himself in. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, trying desperately to make sense of all of this.

“I didn’t know how… you didn’t want any children... with your fear fathering bastards and all that” Ygritte replied with a grimace as her left hand held her belly

“Are you well?” Jon asked fearfully. “Does it hurt?” 

She laughed and pointed at her wet furs.  
“You know nothing Jon Snow… of course it hurts. But my water broke.”

“Your water?” he asked dumbly, really wishing that either maester Aemon or even atleast Samuel was here to help her. 

“She’s about to give birth” Val clarified as she quickly moved to call the midwives.

“Are you well?” Jon asked again, not really knowing what to say. He had no experience with childbirth. He has never felt so utterly useless before.

“I am fine,” she told him through clenched teeth. “I suppose that is normal.”

“Very normal,” one of the midwives assured him as they rushed in and pushed him aside. “And now you must leave.”

“No” he refused 

“You can’t stay in here.”

By now, they had brought water and clean cloths. When they had done it, had escaped Jon, but then his attention had been focused elsewhere.

“Jon,” Val came and patted his shoulder. Jon blinked at her. She must be a ghost, for she had appeared out of nowhere. “they’re right, you should leave.”

“No,” Jon insisted, he didn’t want to leave her alone again, especially at a time like this.

“Tis is no place for men. You would only be in the way,” the wetnurse added and directed him back to Val.

“You should listen to them,” the blonde woman said as he looked over his shoulder. “Tis will get unpleasant. I know what I am speaking about.”  
Jon sucked in a deep breath and walked towards the exit, his gaze seeking Ygritte’s in the last moment, hoping she might convince them to let him stay.

She was shaking her head, her cheeks slightly flushed.

“Believe me, you don’t want see this Jon Snow. Besides, when the time comes I will be aiming me arrows at your stones! Now leave!”

Jon realized this was his cue to leave and was led outside to join Mance, Tormund and the others, who were all drinking and sharing stories.

“It’s seems the gods have smiled upon us bastard of Winterfell, we’ll both be fathers soon, Dalla’s time is also near” the king-beyond–the-wall said as soon as he saw him.

Tormund handed him a waterskin filled with mead and started talking about one thing or another but he could barely pay attention as his mind was only focused on Ygritte’s screams and curses.

A father? 

that filled him so much dread that Jon almost felt numb from it. This was his biggest fear come true and this wasn’t even about the fact that his child would be a bastard like him, but just what kind of father would he be?

As a man of the night’s watch, if word got out that he had fathered a child, it would only mean one thing…

Death.

He would have proven Ser Alliser and lord Slynt’s accusation of being an oathbreaker to be true and he would be hanged.

Perhaps Ygritte would not even forgive him for leaving and betraying her and she would keep him away as she raised their child alone.  
Even if she did allow him to their raise the child, how was he going to do it without arousing suspicions from his black brothers?

He honestly didn’t see many positives in all this, and yet…

A big part of him was also excited for this, he wanted to feel the breath of his child as he held him/her, he wanted to look into the baby’s eyes and tell it just how much he loved it and promise to give him/her just as much love and care as his own father gave to him and his siblings.  
He briefly wondered if this was how Ned Stark felt on the day of his birth, if so then he could understand why he’s father never sent him away despite Lady Stark’s blatant hatred for him.  
His thoughts were interrupted when he saw Val rushing out of the tent and walking towards him

.  
“It’s time” she informed and would have likely said more if Jon had not rushed inside the tent.  
It smelled of blood and there was some other pungent smell that seemed to penetrate the entire tent.

His gaze darted first to Ygritte who was smiling weakly and then to the squalling, red-faced babe in her arms.

Jon couldn’t help but to smile, filled with a joy the likes of which he had never known before.  
His joy was only shortlived however as he truly took the amount of blood Ygritte had lost and on closer inspection, he saw that his redhead lover was sweating profusely.

“Are… are you okay?” he asked weakly as he put his palm on her forehead to feel her temperature which was extremely hot.

“She’s lost too much blood and she has a fever” one of the wet nurses replied prompting him to stand abruptly and declare…

“Then we need to take her to the maester at castle black-

“She can’t move, not in the state that she’s in”

“Then I’ll bring him here” he declared feeling panic setting into his bones

“No, No Jon stay” Ygritte said softly as one of her hands grasped as his, effectively keeping in place.

“I’ll be right back, I swear” he desperately tried to convince her to let him go.

“I need you to listen Jon”

It seemed childbirth did not lessen Ygritte’s stubborn a single bit, Jon thought as he reluctantly did as he was bid.

“I want you to promise me…” she whispered as she took labored breaths

“Anything Ygritte, whatever you want”

“Protect our baby Jon Snow”

“I will, I promise you. I will”

“And protect yourself. I don’t want her to grow up without a father”

Despite the situation, Jon found himself smiling weakly at her obviously not expecting such a request.

“I will” he said again, kissing her sweaty brow.  
Ygritte smiled at him and then brought her eyes to the crying babe in her arm, “she’s beautiful, ain’t she?”

Ygritte’s question finally prompted Jon to study the babe in her arms; the head was a bit long, pouty little lips with a sharp nose and chin, much like his own. But what truly shocked Jon Snow to the core was the babe’s eyes and hair.  
Instead of his own black or Ygritte’s fiery red, she had a turf of silver-blond little curls on her little head and indigo eyes which were a stark contrast to the grey or Ygritte’s blue.

People said he had the stark look, he looked more like a stark than even Robb who was trueborn and yet somehow he’s child had the features of some of the lysene women he saw in one of Theon’s favorite brothels.

Those were some of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen, ‘ethereal beauties’, as Theon once called them but it still didn’t explain why he’s own daughter looked the.

Did he’s father lay with a lysene woman? Was that why he was always so hesitant in telling him about her? Because she was are a whore of valyrian descent 

“She don’t look like neither one of us…” Ygritte’s small voice commented,”…but still-

“She’s perfect, she’s ours” he finished for her as she finally placed the babe in his arms who immediately ceased crying.

Jon snow couldn’t stop the tears that fell from his eyes as kissed the baby’s little forehead.

“Aye, she’s ours” Ygritte affirmed with a weak smile, tears of joy also spilling from her as well.  
What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn in your arms? Nothing but Winds and words. We are only humans and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory and our great glory.

Maester Aemon had said those words to him once and Jon has never truly felt the true weight of them as he did at that moment.

He brought his attention back to Ygritte and held tapped her hand, “hey, would you do something for me?”

The redhead only regarded him curiously before giving a slight nod.

“Will you marry me?” he knew from Tormund that free folk didn’t need ceremonies or a septon to wed, one could say that he and Ygritte were already married but he wanted to do it in a proper westerosi fashion.

At Ygritte’s concerting nod, he helped her sit more upright 

“Would you repeat after me?”

She gave him another nod as he touched her forehead with his own, allowing the babe to rest in both their arms.

“Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith…Stranger,” he rattled on, trembling at every word as Ygritte slowly repeated after him.

“I am yours and you are mine,” Jon added. “From this day till the end of my days,”  
He placed a soft kiss on her mouth which she weakly responded to.

“Is that what you kneelers call a marriage in the south?” Val asked, amusement clear in her tone.

“It is” Jon responded with a small laugh, he hadn’t even realized that there were other occupants in the tent but he still couldn’t find it in him to care.

“The freefolk do not do such things” Dalla spoke with a smile on her face

“I know” he said, kissing his little girl’s forehead as she gurgled.

“You know nothing Jon Snow” his wife said, voice laced with exhaustion and weakness and… happiness.

His Wife…

I shall take no wife and father no children.  
Seems Ser Alliser and Janos Slynt was right about one thing after all… he really was an oathbreaker, but he would be damned if he ever said he regretted any part of this.

This was the happiest he has ever been, he has finally found what he has been searching for in his entire life…

Home.

“Freefolk… freefolk don’t name their babes until after their third nameday but… I want to know what you’ll name her”

But before he could begin to think that through, he heard the low moan of a horn, made faint by the tent’s hide walls. 

He quickly gave the babe back to Ygritte and went to see what was happening. The warhorn was louder outside. Its call had stirred the wildling camp. Three Hornfoot men jogged past, carrying long spears. Horses were whinnying and snorting, giants roaring in the Old Tongue, and even the mammoths were restless. 

“Outrider’s horn,” he heard Tormund telling Mance. 

“Something’s coming.” Varamyr sat crosslegged on the half-frozen ground, his wolves circled restlessly around him. A shadow swept over him, and Jon looked up to see the eagle’s blue-grey wings. 

“Coming, from the east.” 

When the dead walk, walls and stakes and swords mean nothing, he remembered. You cannot fight the dead, Jon Snow. No man knows that half so well as me.

Harma scowled, “East? The wights should be behind us.” 

“East,” the skinchanger repeated. “Something’s coming.” 

“The Others?” Jon asked. 

Mance shook his head. “The Others never come when the sun is up.”

Chariots were rattling across the killing ground, jammed with riders waving spears of sharpened bone. The king groaned. 

“Where the bloody hell do they think they’re going? Quenn, get those fools back where they belong. Someone bring my horse. The mare, not the stallion. I’ll want my armor too.” Mance glanced suspiciously at the Wall. Atop the icy parapets, the straw soldiers stood collecting arrows, but there was no sign of any other activity. 

“Harma, mount up your raiders. Tormund, find your sons and give me a triple line of spears.” 

“Aye,” said Tormund, striding off. 

The mousy little skinchanger closed his eyes and said, “I see them. They’re coming along the streams and game trails…”

“Who?” 

“Men. Men on horses. Men in steel and men in black.” 

“Crows.” Mance made the word a curse. He turned on Jon. “Did my old brothers think they’d catch me with my breeches down if they attacked while we were talking?” 

“If they planned an attack they never told me about it.” Jon did not believe it. Lord Janos lacked the men to attack the wildling camp. Besides, he was on the wrong side of the Wall, and the gate was sealed with rubble. He had a different sort of treachery in mind, this can’t be his work. 

“If you’re lying to me again, you won’t be leaving here alive,” Mance warned. His guards brought him his horse and armor.

“I have a child in that tent, what does lying do for me?” 

Elsewhere around the camp, Jon saw people running at cross purposes, some men forming up as if to storm the Wall while others slipped into the woods, women driving dog carts east, mammoths wandering west. He reached back over his shoulder and drew Longclaw just as a thin line of rangers emerged from the fringes of the wood three hundred yards away. They wore black mail, black halfhelms, and black cloaks. 

Half-armored, Mance drew his sword. “You knew nothing of this, did you?” he said to Jon, coldly. Slow as honey on a cold morning, the rangers swept down on the wildling camp, picking their way through clumps of gorse and stands of trees, over roots and rocks. 

Wildlings flew to meet them, shouting war cries and waving clubs and bronze swords and axes made of flint, galloping headlong at their ancient enemies. 

A shout, a slash, and a fine brave death, Jon had heard brothers say of the free folk’s way of fighting. “Believe what you will,” Jon told the King-beyond-the-Wall, “but I knew nothing of any attack.” 

Harma thundered past before Mance could reply, riding at the head of thirty raiders. Her standard went before her; a dead dog impaled on a spear, raining blood at every stride.   
Mance watched as she smashed into the rangers. 

“Might be you’re telling it true,” he said. “Those look like Eastwatch men. Sailors on horses. 

Cotter Pyke always had more guts than sense. He took the Lord of Bones at Long Barrow, he might have thought to do the same with me. If so, he’s a fool. He doesn’t have the men, he—” 

“Mance!” the shout came. It was a scout, bursting from the trees on a lathered horse. 

“Mance, there’s more, they’re all around us, iron men, iron, a host of iron men.” 

Cursing, Mance swung up into the saddle. “Varamyr, stay and see that no harm comes to Dalla.” The King-beyond-the-Wall pointed his sword at Jon. “And keep a few extra eyes on this crow. If he trys anything suspicious, rip out his throat“ 

“Aye, I’ll do that.” The skinchanger was a head shorter than Jon, slumped and soft, but that shadowcat could disembowel him with one paw. 

“They’re coming from the north too,” Varamyr told Mance. “You best go.”

Mance donned his helm with its raven wings. His men were mounted up as well. “Arrowhead,” Mance snapped, “to me, form wedge.” 

Yet when he slammed his heels into the mare and flew across the field at the rangers, the men who raced to catch him lost all semblance of formation. Jon took a step toward the tent, thinking of the Horn of Winter, but the shadowcat blocked him, tail lashing. The beast’s nostrils flared, and slaver ran from his curved front teeth. 

He smells my fear. He missed Ghost more than ever then. The two wolves were behind him, growling. “Banners,” he heard Varamyr murmur, “I see golden banners, oh…” 

A mammoth lumbered by, trumpeting, a half-dozen bowmen in the wooden tower on its back. “The king… no…” 

Then the skinchanger threw back his head and screamed. The sound was shocking, ear-piercing, thick with agony. Varamyr fell, writhing, and the ’cat was screaming too… and high, high in the eastern sky, against the wall of cloud, Jon saw the eagle burning. For a heartbeat it flamed brighter than a star, wreathed in red and gold and orange, its wings beating wildly at the air as if it could fly from the pain. Higher it flew, and higher, and higher still.

The scream brought Val out of the tent, white-faced. “What is it, what’s happened?” 

Varamyr’s wolves were fighting each other, and the shadowcat had raced off into the trees, but the man was still twisting on the ground  
“What’s wrong with him?” Val demanded, horrified. 

“Where’s Mance?”

“There.” Jon pointed. “Gone to fight.” The king led his ragged wedge into a knot of rangers, his sword flashing. 

“Gone? He can’t be gone, not now. It’s started.” 

“What?” He watched the rangers scatter before Harma’s bloody dog’s head. The raiders screamed and hacked and chased the men in black back into the trees. But there were more men coming from the wood, a column of horse. Knights on heavy horse, Jon saw. 

Harma had to regroup and wheel to meet them but half of her men had raced too far ahead. “The birth, Dalla’s about to give birth!” Val was shouting at him. 

Trumpets were blowing all around, loud and brazen. The wildlings have no trumpets, only warhorns. They knew that as well as he did; the sound sent free folk running in confusion, some toward the fighting, others away. A mammoth was stomping through a flock of sheep that three men were trying to herd off west. The drums were beating as the wildlings ran to form squares and lines, but they were too late, too disorganized, too slow. The enemy was emerging from the forest, from the east, the northeast, the north; three great columns of heavy horse, all dark glinting steel and bright wool surcoats. Not the men of Eastwatch, those had been no more than a line of scouts. 

An army. The king? Jon was as confused as the wildlings. Could Robb have returned? Had the boy on the Iron Throne finally bestirred himself?

“You best get back inside the tent,” he told Val. 

Across the field one column had washed over Harma Dogshead. Another smashed into the flank of Tormund’s spearmen as he and his sons desperately tried to turn them. The giants were climbing onto their mammoths, though, and the knights on their barded horses did not like that at all; he could see how the coursers and destriers screamed and scattered at the sight of those lumbering mountains. 

But there was fear on the wildling side as well, hundreds of women and children rushing away from the battle, some of them blundering right under the hooves of garrons. He saw an old woman’s dog cart veer into the path of three chariots, to send them crashing into each other. “Gods,” Val whispered, “gods, why are they doing this?”

“Go inside the tent and stay with Dalla. It’s not safe out here.” He wanted to go back to Ygritte as well but he knew that he had to stay outside and guard the tent. 

He had lost sight of Mance but now he found him again, cutting his way through a knot of mounted men. The mammoths had shattered the center column, but the other two were closing like pincers. On the eastern edge of the camps, some archers were loosing fire arrows at the tents. 

He saw a mammoth pluck a knight from his saddle and fling him forty feet with a flick of its trunk. Wildlings streamed past, women and children running from the battle, some with men hurrying them along. 

A few of them gave Jon dark looks but Longclaw was in his hand, and no one troubled him. Even Varamyr fled, crawling off on his hands and knees. More and more men were pouring from the trees, not only knights now but freeriders and mounted bowmen and men-at-arms in jack and kettle helms, dozens of men, hundreds of men. A blaze of banners flew above them. 

The wind was whipping them too wildly for Jon to see the sigils, but he glimpsed a seahorse, a field of birds, a ring of flowers. And yellow, so much yellow, yellow banners with a red device, whose arms were those? East and north and northeast, he saw bands of wildlings trying to stand and fight, but the attackers rode right over them.

The free folk still had the numbers, but the attackers had steel armor and heavy horses. In the thickest part of the fray, Jon saw Mance standing tall in his stirrups. His red-and-black cloak and raven-winged helm made him easy to pick out. 

He had his sword raised and men were rallying to him when a wedge of knights smashed into them with lance and sword and longaxe. 

Mance’s mare went up on her hind legs, kicking, and a spear took her through the breast. Then the steel tide washed over him. 

‘It’s done,’ Jon thought, they’re breaking. 

The wildlings were running, throwing down their weapons, Horn foot men and cave dwellers and Thenns in bronze scales, they were running. 

Mance was gone, someone was waving Harma’s head on a pole, and Tormund’s lines had broken. Only the giants on their mammoths were holding, hairy islands in a red steel sea. The fires were leaping from tent to tent and some of the tall pines were going up as well. And through the smoke another wedge of armored riders came, on barded horses. 

Floating above them were the largest banners yet, royal standards as big as sheets; a yellow one with long pointed tongues that showed a flaming heart, and another like a sheet of beaten gold, with a black stag prancing and rippling in the wind. 

‘Robert?’ Jon thought for one mad moment, but when the trumpets blew again and the knights charged, the name they cried was “Stannis! Stannis! STANNIS!” 

Jon turned away, and went inside the tent to his wife and child.

**Author's Note:**

> SO... what do you think?


End file.
